


Au Lecteur

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The Devil pulls the strings which make us dance;<br/>We find delight in the most loathsome things;<br/>Some furtherance of Hell each new day brings,<br/>And yet we feel no horror in that rank advance.”<br/>-Charles Baudelaire, Au Lecteur</p><p>[Slightly divergent Season 2 Hannigram fic. Will 'deals with his feelings' for Hannibal]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yakimono

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have changed. You changed me."

Though Will had never taken his fashion cues from anything but warmth, comfort, and the Salvation Army, he found it even more difficult to dress himself once he was freed from prison. So many weeks of wearing nothing but the same jumpsuit -- sometimes grey, sometimes orange, sometimes brown, but the same one all the same -- had made him forget the very few rules on how to dress he’d managed to accrue over the years.

This visit was important. He wanted to look...put together. Rather, he didn’t want to look like the sweating, seizing, crying mess he had previously been. He wanted to look collected, reformed.  
  
Changed.

He wanted Hannibal to look at him and know he was different.

He wanted Hannibal to look at him, yet after he knocked on the door of the office Will found that he couldn’t look. He turned his back and stared down the paintings on the opposite wall, searching their abstract strokes for anything but the shapes of the things he’d been dreaming and seeing. No form sprung out at him, only twisted waves, but in them he still saw the fleshy, violent fantasies that raced through his mind.  
  
The door opened and he was compelled to turn.  
  
Hannibal didn’t look surprised, only ruffled. He answered in a sweater, clearly no longer accepting patients. Yet here he was.  
  
Waiting.  
  
“May I come in?” Will asked evenly, his coat mashed between his elbow and bicep in a semblance of coolness.

Hannibal looked him over consideringly, leaving Will to wonder if he would notice a difference or if it was just that the killer could smell prison on him still.   
  
“Do you intend to point a gun at me?”  
  
The memory of coming to close to gunning Hannibal down gave Will confidence, made him smile, and took him breezily through the door.   
  
“Not tonight.” He replied off-handedly as he entered the office and looked around. Not a difference. Not a thread out of place. No detail changed from his time away, prooving that Will’s memory of the place was burned into his brain white-hot and clear. There was a glass of red wine on Hannibal’s desk.  
  
“Are you expecting someone?”

Hannibal had shut and locked the door.

“Only you.”

Will almost laughed, his skin creeping with discomfort or glee or both.

“You kept my standing appointment open?” Even the bookshelves were arranged the same, the pattern of dull browns, reds, and greens marking out the same stripes they always did.  
  
“And you’re right on time.” Hannibal’s words weren’t measured, but Will recognized the expectancy in his tone. Will was disgusted that he knew what Hannibal was asking. He didn’t know if he was in Hannibal’s mind or Hannibal was in his.  
  
When he spoke again, he was even more disgusted.   
  
“I have to deal with you, and my feelings about you.” His voice was wavering, nothing like the confidence he’d had before. It was all undone knowing Hannibal had been waiting for him, specifically, with a glass of wine. “I think its best if I do that directly.” and yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak of his feelings about him to Hannibal’s face, keeping his back turned like a coward.

There was only silence at his back. A long silence that made Will’s ears ring while Hannibal calculated his words.

“First you have to grieve for what is lost, and what has changed.” He finally said, his voice as clear and easy as had been every night in Will’s visions while his brain grasped weakly at sleep. It was as gentle and unobtrusive as black winter night but grated on his mind like an ice pick.

He finally turned, angry. And Will _was_ angry. Angry enough to point a gun at Hannibal, angry enough to bargain away the lives of many people for a chance to reel Hannibal in, angry at the dreams of rough kisses and killing and blackness.

“I’ve changed. You changed me.” The anger didn’t escape. Only the weak wavering.

“The friendship that we had is over. The Chesapeake ripper is over.” Was he trying to comfort Will, the younger man wondered? Was there something about saying everything was over that was supposed to make Will feel better?

Their friendship was over, but Will hadn’t yet begun.

“It had to Miriam didn’t it? She was compelled to take his life to she could take her own back.” Will’s mind raced all over the place to distract itself from the monster drawing nearer, step by quiet step.

“How will you take your life back?”

Will finally looked into Hannibal’s face, unblinking. Will hated eyes, especially Hannibal’s eyes. Night after night, alone, he’d imagined those eyes. He’d imagined staring into them, crawling into them and swimming in them, hunting down the deadness that was supposed to be there. But Hannibal’s eyes were alive, bright, and searching as well.   
  
There was no nothingness in Hannibal’s eyes. No humanlessness to tell that he was, in fact, a monster. The blankness housed in the eyes of psychopath’s was replaced by genuine concern in those clear hazel eyes. Or morbid curiosity masquerading perfectly as concern. Both were equally terrifying.

“I’d like to resume my therapy.” Will said tightly, moving to sit down in the familiar chair. Anything to get away from the urge to dive into those eyes. As he sat, Will finally caught the first bare showing of emotion Hannibal had offered.

He took a long, deep breath. Bracing, perhaps, or calculating. All the same, Will held his and swallowed. After letting out a sigh, Hannibal sat the way Will had memorized: legs crossed, hands folded against his narrow hips.  
  
“Where shall we begin?”

Will was staring again at Hannibal’s face, his heart threatening to flop out of his mouth if he opened it to speak. There was nothing different about the office. There was nothing different about the way Hannibal sat, or looked, or smelled, or sounded. There was nothing different about the tingling, fluttering feeling of being chased Will felt in Hannibal’s presence.

 There was nothing different about why he was feeling that.

There was _everything_ different about saying it out loud, about admitting it to anyone other than himself and the self he saw sitting next to himself when he was alone in his prison cell.

Hannibal just stared expectantly back, waiting for Will’s insides to turn out and splatter at his feet. Will swallowed everything but the tremble in his voice.   
  
“I couldn’t…” Will trailed away, his teeth grinding his mouth shut. He forced the words out through the tiny cracks in the white wall: “I can’t stop thinking...about you.”

The words flopped between them, bleeding out into the silence and dying too slow for Hannibal to miss them. Will wanted to bury them where he could never see.   
  
“You’re grieving. It’s natural to dwell on the event of the past in hopes that things will happen differently.” Hannibal droned, putting on his psychiatrist voice.  
  
“No, Hannibal that’s…” Will licked his lips, pulling them in between his teeth and looking at the portion of the carpet to his lower right. Hannibal’s passive face was too much in the presence of the face Will had imagined. That same face, the porcelain veneer wiped away by heat and hurt and the unimaginable things that had kept Will awake.   
  
“That’s not it. When I was incarcerated I--” Will choked on his admission, devolving into nervous, huffy chuckled. He was panicked, almost.

“I sense this is not the appropriate time for this discussion.” Hannibal injected calmly, to Will’s surprise.

Hannibal had never interrupted his stream-of-consciousness during their sessions before, allowing Will to babble on however the words ran out of his mouth. The closest thing to interrupting he’d ever done was break his watch of Will’s face to write something down.

He was caught so off guard, he could only nod subtly.

Hannibal took in a deep breath and placed his hands on the arms of his chair, lifting himself out of it with an almost agitated movement. Will remained seated, slightly disoriented.   
  
“I was operating under the assumption I would have more time to adjust to seeing you again.” Hannibal announced from a standing position closer to Will’s chair than he’d ever stood during their sessions. Will coiled himself into the plush slightly, drawing his knees to the opposite corner of it.

“I thought you said you were expecting me?” Will almost accused.

“I wasn’t expecting you to desire me.”

Will lurched out of his chair and to the door, clutching his coat in a white-knuckled fist.

“You were right. This isn’t the appropriate time--”

“Will.”

“--for this discussion. I shouldn’t have--”

“Will.”

“---Goodnight, Dr. Le---”

“Will.” Hannibal’s low, insistent repetition of Will’s name mocked the brunette’s fantasies, where Hannibal screamed for him. He felt his shoulders and neck grow hot with discomfort, maybe shame, as he reached for the doorknob. They felt seared when Hannibal’s hand gripped them, keeping him from slipping out the locked door.

Will had forgotten that Hannibal had locked the door.

“What are you afraid of?”

Will was afraid of his dogs getting hit by cars or attacked by bears and of the implications of the dead light of stars and of his own deceiving mind and for Alanna and of Jack and by the fiery light of sunrise lest it mean armageddon and he was terrified of the softness in Hannibal’s face when he turned face him and pressed his back against the door.

He was afraid of the barely tangible pressure of Hannibal’s free hand at his waist when they locked eyes and Will climbed into that gaze, lost for a moment in the thought that whatever this was might happen. Hannibal’s wrist brushed his hip, passing him to reach the lock, clicking like a move-timer in a chess game.   
  
“I don’t know anymore.” Will answered, entranced and lost. He hated eyes. He hated the cold feel of them as they bored into his own and melted over the back of his skull. He hated how his widened at a delicate, unsure pressure at his mouth.

A kiss, or something like it, barely a breath, before he was out the door; gone with a touch that was nothing like he’d planned, nothing like he’d seen in visions alone. It was sweet and fleeting, tentative or even prying. Not an invitation to more, but a permissive gesture.

Will couldn’t imagine Hannibal asking permission for anything.

It was wrong and Will was maddened.

This was not what he wanted. Or rather, not what he’d expected.

Months of thinking of Hannibal every night and he couldn’t have fathomed a chaste kiss.

Hannibal had indeed changed him.


	2. Su-Zakana Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Demons are like obedient dogs; they come when they are called.”  
> ― Remy de Gourmont

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to the 8tracks mix for this fic by searching the title

Will turned the memory of the kiss over in his mind endlessly until it was polished and smooth like a river stone. He worried over the memory in his pocket, holding it, but not thinking on it when it he could help it.

He could rarely help it. Even when he closed his eyes he could feel the petal breeze of it, the quiet of it, the sweetness.

He could feel nothing else it seemed, not even the vibrations of his ringing phone. Will was glad for the telephonic screen keeping the feeling of Hannibal’s voice from penetrating his mind when his psychiatrist casually invited him to a dinner party with Jack Crawford as if nothing had changed.

It was Will’s turn to provide the meat.

It was cooked to beautiful perfection and served in its natural state with vegetables and broth and more fish and all things were obviously what Hannibal said they were. Will only grudgingly admit how delicious it all was, even in the face of the mockery of Jack and Will. Hannibal could confidently present these foods without raising a hair of doubt, though he knew Jack and Will would harbor that doubt anyway.

Jack and Hannibal chatted with more charisma than Will cared to be surrounded by. He gripped his knife tighter when he felt Hannibal’s eyes on his face

“Our greatest crime now would be to walk away from what we’ve shared and suffered, in many ways we need each other.” He explained, but said only to Will. Or rather, Will felt he was the only one hearing what was being said. “We are the only ones who know what this feels like.”

Hannibal could mean any number of things. Will looked at the men at the table, including himself in the reflection of his fork, and thought on the threads connecting them. He imagined those threads stitching up the belly of a dead horse, himself trapped on the inside and begging for the warmth.

Will found that he simultaneously did and did not want to discuss their previous session when he arrived to speak with Hannibal-his-psychiatrist after questioning Peter Bernardone. He was still bitter with his own confusion over Hannibal-the-man-who’d-kissed him.

“Rebirth can only ever be symbolic.” Will said mechanically as they discussed the crimes. How many layers of conversation could he stand before he was crushed in the weight? How many feather-light touches and glances would he bear before they bruised him?

“Well you’ve been reborn.”

  
Will continued to grow irritated with metaphor. Birds and feathers and kisses.

“Wasn’t that the goal of my therapy?” He asked with irritation. There was silence meeting him. Will could sense what Hannibal sensed: the thread of the conversation would go no where. Layers and layers.

“How does it feel consulting again with Jack Crawford and the FBI? Last time it nearly destroyed you.” Hannibal redirected, pulling a scowl to Will’s face.

“Last time you nearly destroyed me.” No more than that kiss would destroy him. How much it left him wanting.

“After everything that has happened Will, you still believe--”

“Stop. Right there. ” Enough.Too much had happened. Too much was happening. “You might have to pretend. But I don’t.”

 _But I do_ , Will thought to his self sitting next to him in the prison.

Will wanted to see Hannibal’s fear. He wanted to see his pain. He only saw intrigue. A tilt of the head and a measured glance with a reply: “No you don’t.”

_But I do._

“Not with me.”

The idea interested Will. To no longer lie, to admit everything.

“I don’t expect you to admit anything. You can’t.”

Of whom was Will speaking? Where was the line between Will and Hannibal? Will thought it might have gotten lost somewhere between their lips or somewhere in his lungs while he gasped for breath, waking from dreams of what that kiss should have been; visions of carnage.

Will sighed. “But I prefer sins of omission to outright lies, Dr. Lecter.” Where did this anger come from? “Don’t. Lie to Me.”

Will couldn’t take the lie of a kiss.

“Will you return the courtesy?”

There was only silence. Will couldn’t answer that question, there was no reason to. He was lying about everything. About his own feelings, about his loyalties, about the peacefulness of his own mind.

“Why have you resumed your therapy?”

“I can’t just talk to any psychiatrist about what’s kicking around my head.” Will snorted.

“You fantasize about killing me.” Hannibal was not putting on his psychiatrist voice. This is the voice of the man who kissed Will, and he is genuinely curious. What does he want with this information? What does Will -- the man sitting in the prison next to the Will in the chair across from Hannibal who did nothing but fantasize about the other man -- What does Will have to lose from admitting this one small thing?

“Yes.” His voice held a tight grip on everything he had to lose. Will couldn’t define exactly what it was, but he knew it was the last piece that Hannibal had yet to steal. It was the last dark secret that was resting with Hannibal, thought it was stepped in his sighs and his blood and his cries.

“Tell me. How would you do it?”

Will who sat in prison often thought of the feel of Hannibal’s skin, boiling with sweat and stretching too-tight over the muscles and bones of a physique that was elegant and frightening. Alien, somehow, but human in function. A well-tailored human-suit, as perfect as the rest in the closet and perhaps more perfect than the one rumpled on the floor.

He often thought of the wretched curve of an arching back or a craned neck leaning away from his hands, shrinking away in pain or pleasure. Whichever came first. Hopefully pain.

He thought most of Hannibal’s neck: blunt. strong. Not broad enough not to yield to the span of just one of Will’s hands. Not strong enough not to yield to the pressure of both. Veins bulging, struggling to push blood through strangled passages, dammed up by Will’s...by his what? What was that feeling?

It could not have been hate.

It was desire.

“With my hands.” He choked finally, his voice growing quiet so as not to agitate his thoughts further.

Hannibal looked taken aback. “Then we haven’t moved past apologies and forgiveness, have we?”

“We’ve moved past a lot of things.” Will pointed out. They’d moved past professionalism. They’d moved past psychiatry. They’d moved past friendship. “I discovered a truth about myself when I tried to you have you killed.”

It was desire.

“That doing bad things to bad people makes you feel good.” Hannibal was wearing his psychiatrist voice again, looking Will calmly in the face. He knew what Will was actually saying. He’d said it himself.

Neither of them had expected Will’s desire.

Will nodded tightly, the promise of something in Hannibal’s eyes strangling him. “Yes.”

Hannibal stood from his chair, standing over Will, as close he had in their last session. Will gripped the armrests of the couch to keep from curling up in fear as he had before. Hannibal’s next words were finely calculated.

“I need to know if you’re going to try to kill me again Will.”

Hannibal looked down into Will’s wet-eyed face as the other man licked his lips and tried to look anywhere but Hannibal’s mouth. They made eye contact instead as Will shook his head. “I don’t want to kill you anymore Dr. Lecter. Not now that I finally find you interesting.”

More than interest raced through Will’s mind as a flat smile claimed Hannibal’s face. Hannibal’s smiles were always tight and controlled. This one seemed to sneak through a crack in some veneer and roll lazily to freedom.

“Do you fantasize about _not_ killing me?” Hannibal asked this time. Before he had already known that Will thought on killing him, Will realized that now. The question hung between them and tied Will’s arms to the chair, his fingers digging into the upholstery.

“I…” Will allowed his nerves to encourage him to speak before he chose his words. The vowel sound hung there, lonely, waiting to be joined by the rest of a thought. He swallowed again, trying to blink the wetness and fear and desperation out of his eyes. “I fantasize about a lot of things.”

Those were not the words he would have chosen were he able to keep his blood pressure and heart rate at acceptable levels. Words failed him further when Hannibal kneeled by Will’s shins, bracing his kill crouch by taking a soft hold of Will’s forearms. There was a slight pressure as Hannibal pulled him forward, encouraging Will to lean closer to him despite the other man’s instincts to run.

“I am not lying, Will.” He said quietly before his lips pressed to Will’s again. This time Will couldn’t tell if he had leaned forward, Hannibal had leaned up, or some mixture of both. Will’s heart clutched in his chest, shrinking away into his ribcage as the same feeling of gentleness and tenderness flooded his senses. He wanted to recoil, he felt repulsed.

But as he leaned down against Hannibal’s mouth, desperate to breathe the poison out from Hannibal’s lungs, Will felt nothing but a desperate and magnetic pull towards the other man. Any sense of repulsion dwelled solely in his own chest, forcing his conflicting sentiments to opposite sides of his torso and making his panicked heart beat wildly.

Hannibal’s cool hands rested surely on the side of his face, drawing him away.

The telephone rang.

Will did not breathe.


End file.
